


Overthinking

by loveandpride1895



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Mental Health Issues, Please Forgive me, Repressing things that one should probably not repress, Sickfic, Vomiting, brian being unable to catch a break in 1974, i think the medical stuff is vague enough to not be inaccurate but if it is inaccurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 05:13:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19144264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveandpride1895/pseuds/loveandpride1895
Summary: During the recording of 'Sheer Heart Attack,' the smell of hospitals lingers, the Grand National isn't pleasant to watch and 'Emmerdale Farm' is more captivating than one might imagine.Also, Brian might be losing his mind.





	Overthinking

The smell lingers for days. The sharp, acrid smell of disinfectant mixed with vomit, mixed with blood, mixed with cheap NHS lunch meat. It clings to his nostrils and the back of his throat, clings to the crevices between his fingers (all present and correct, for which he counts his blessings whenever he remembers to) and between his toes. He isn't allowed to have a proper shower yet, not while his arm is still healing, so the smell is his cross to bare for now.

He's almost grateful that he's barely awake to experience it.

They'd warned him about the tiredness, but he hadn't prepared himself for the _fatigue_. Tiredness is surface level, tiredness is needing an occasional siesta and hitting the hay at half past ten. Fatigue is bone deep. Fatigue is feeling television static in your limbs and white noise echoing in your ears and being able to envision nothing at all beyond your bedsheets.

It's Roger's day to check in on him. The fact that his friends have _days_ is almost as bad as the prospect of them not having _days_. He gets it now. The tight but genuine smile that used to paint his granny's face at 2:30pm on a Saturday at Bluebell Home.

He wonders if Roger will expect him to be up and about. He hadn't last time, but that was three days ago and he's _supposed_ to be recovering.

Brian sucks in a breath and holds it in the back of his mouth as he rolls onto his side, then slowly expels it as he levers himself up. He tries not to think of how un-rock star (and indeed, un-mid-twenties) his movements are as an omen and instead focuses on subduing the nausea that is climbing up his throat. The wooden floor is cold beneath his feet.

Another week and a half is what he's allowed before Trident want him back in the studio. Two weeks had sounded generous when they'd first proposed it (which is perhaps testament to quite how poorly they were used to being handled) but now, he's been out of the hospital for four days and feels no better.

( _Worse_ , his brain whispers. _You feel worse.)_

But he can't afford to not be getting better, literally can't afford it. This album has to be nothing short of spectacular, or they're going to have to pack their dreams of stardom away in a dentist's briefcase, electrician's toolkit, designer's supply box and teacher's cupboard respectively.

They've had a taste now, and holy shit it was good.

Brian refuses to be responsible for the premature death of Queen.

 

  
***

 

  
He greets Roger at the front door with a smile that he believes.

Roger can read him like a book, but only when he chooses to wear his glasses.

 

  
***

 

  
Brian thinks about a lot of things over the next week and a half. Between visits from the boys on their _days_ , he's alone with his thoughts whenever he's not asleep, Chrissy occupied with her 'proper job.'

He thinks about his decision to make guitar playing his job. He thinks about the implication of the verb 'playing,' in that sentence, thinks about its collocations and thinks about his father spitting it.

This leads him on to thinking about his family. He thinks about the implication of the noun 'family,' thinks about whether his personal definition matches the Oxford English one anymore and thinks about where he fits into other people's definitions.

This leads him on to thinking about where he fits into the universe. He thinks about the implication of the verb 'fits,' in that sentence, thinks about how _he's always been all limb and legs that don't fit in the back of the car anyway so why should he expect to feel like the universe gives a shit about whether he fits into it and why should it matter when he's so small and unimportant in the grand cosmic scheme of things anyway and-_

When Brian thinks too much, he watches 'Emmerdale Farm' and develops an irrational hatred of Amos Brearly.

 

***

 

Brian's scientific side tells his artistic side that it was foolish to expect his return to the studio to be accompanied by some sort of pathetic fallacy.

In his head there lingers fog and in his gut, a thunderstorm. But the sky is bathed in brilliant sunshine that feels like mockery.

The studio is all sunshine too, alight with the joy of being a four piece again - _we can get this done and then we'll be rich!_ \- and buzzing with electricity. Brian tries to buzz with the same euphoric energy but only manages nervous energy. He's so far into lethargy that he's come out the other end and it is manifesting itself as jitters.

It doesn't help that he's doing the opposite of operating on autopilot. He has to think about everything, it's not flooding through his veins like it used to, meaning he is overthinking everything. The sounds he's producing are the bare bones, perfectly nice but (if he's being honest with himself) _really bloody boring._

It also doesn't help that he's been unable to stomach anything but black coffee for the last two days.

By the end of the session he feels like he's run a marathon with the others riding on his back. He slides down the wall and watches the pathetic heaving of his own chest, until a person-shaped shadow falls over him. Freddie pats him on the shoulder.

"So good to have you back, love."

Brian bites his tongue against the words "I don't feel back at all."

 

***

 

Brian is allowed to take showers now, so he does until the water runs cold. He uses half a bottle of shampoo every time, washes every limb in a painfully methodical manner and rubs at his skin until it is red raw.

And still the smell lingers.

Or it does to him anyway.

Perhaps he's losing his mind.

He's still dripping wet the first time it happens. His stomach clenches, his knees give out and then he's making _awful awful_ sounds into the toilet bowl as the small dinner he'd choked down makes a reappearance.

He kneels there gasping for an indeterminate amount of time before his body ceases the war it's waging. He kneels there shaking for an indeterminate amount of time afterwards, then grasps on to the sink and heaves himself upwards.

He's confronted by the sight of himself in the mirror. A flaccid mouth, eyes with bags that wouldn't meet luggage regulations on a passenger flight and cheekbones so sharp he'd be arrested at customs.

He doesn't move his face an inch, but the one staring back at him smirks.

_Definitely losing his mind._

 

***

 

When the Grand National is on instead of 'Emmerdale Farm,' he switches the television off and stares at the blank screen.

It's out of principle.

He hates the fact that when the horses have exhausted their usefulness, they're simply put down.

 

***

 

"We can manage without you, if you're not feeling good."

He's on the floor again, by the wall. It's John this time, and he's brought a glass of water that he sets gingerly beside Brian's thigh. He plays with a thread that's dangling from his jumper as he bites his tongue against the terrified cry of protest.

"No thanks. M'fine."

John crouches in front of him, and raises his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. His eyes are deep and in the dead centre of a Venn Digram labelled 'condescending,' 'concerned' and 'unconvinced.' John was always louder with his eyes than words.

"I am. Just didn't sleep last night."

"Brian, we can easily work around not having you here, it's not the end of the-"

"I'm fine."

"You can come back later when you're-"

"I. Am. Fine." A brief pause. "Thank you."

"If you say so. But it'll take a lot longer to re-record stuff we're... Unhappy with than it would if you just waited."

Brian blinks.

"You're... Unhappy with my stuff?"

John sighs and runs a hand down his face. He offers Brian a flat, wincing smile.

"Aren't you?"

Brian tips his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. He knew it. Could see disappointment peeking out from the cracks in the eggshell they were all walking on. But hearing it out loud...

He huffs out a groan.

"Yeah, it's shite."

"I wouldn't go that far but-"

"Better tomorrow. It'll be better tomorrow."

John nods slowly, and slips the Venn Diagram face back on.

"Alright."

The door clicks as he shuts it behind him, and leaves in its wake an oppressive silence.

Brian swallows down the water and the feeling of hopelessness. Both toll out a hollow pendulum drop as they hit the walls of his empty stomach.

 

***

 

_That night, he dreams of dismounting jockeys and slaughterhouses._

 

***

 

It takes another day or two before Roger finally decides to start seeing.

Brian is perched on the end of the sofa, with his belt laid out across his lap and a screwdriver in his hand. He's making an extra hole, quite a few inches further in than the smallest one.

Roger sits heavily beside him, the sofa cracking and creaking as he does so. He frowns at Brian until he meets his eye.

"What?"

"You're not getting better, are you?"

"What are you-"

"You're not."

"I am getting better."

"You're not. I thought it was just the environmental shock of being thrown back into the deep end, but it's been weeks and you're not getting-"

"Rog, I really am." _It's not my body that's the problem._

"Don't lie to me. Please don't lie to me." Roger's eyes threaten tears. Brian sets the belt aside and Roger's eyes scrutinise it.

"I'm not, I promise. You hit the nail on the head. Environmental."

"You've lost weight."

"It's the drugs."

"You can talk to me."

_I'm losing my mind and it's going to cost me my career._

"Thank you. But I'm fine."

 

  
***

 

his face is reflected in the recording booth.

it smirks at him and then the curtain falls.

 

***

 

there are two types of sirens happening.

one has flashing lights.

the other is singing.

"oh people of the earth..."

 

***

 

the smell.

thesmellthesmellthesmellthesmellthesmellthesmell.

 

***

 

"Six years or so, Mr May. That's how long you've had it, we reckon. A rather nasty duodenal ulcer."

 

***

 

"Oh god." Freddie, horror painting his face. He scuttles to Brian's bedside and cups his hands over his wet cheeks. "Why are you crying, you're fine, they told me you were fine."

Brian laughs heartily and the accompanying grin lingers as he speaks.

"I thought I was losing my mind."

He laughs again as Freddie drops one hand and runs the other through his hair with a relieved huff.

"I hope not. We need that mind for some depressing shit on the album. And some less depressing shit, if you think you can manage it."

"I'll certainly try my best."

 

***

 

_Now I'm here..._

_I think I'll stay_

_Around_

_Around_

_Around_

_Around_

 

***

 

\- fin -

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments would mean the world!
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr if you like - Also loveandpride1895


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